


7KPP Week 2017

by firetan



Series: 7KPP Event Collections [1]
Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: 7KPP Week, Disabled Character, Family, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9630737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetan/pseuds/firetan
Summary: Everyone reacts a little differently to finding they’re going to the Summit.





	1. Day 1 - Past

**Iriel** is _ecstatic_ when the judges look at her and nod, and she almost tears the paper her poem’s written on in half by accident before catching herself and bowing, entirely unable to keep the brilliant smile off of her face. It remains there as she tries not to skip to the winner’s stand to receive the ‘seal’ (really just a fancy sailor’s knot on a necklace cord) that signifies her new status as a Hisean Delegate to the seven-week Summit, and as she all but runs home with her hair loose and blowing in the wind.

Her father is in the front garden, tending to some of his Wellish orchids (he sure does love those plants, but Iriel doesn’t mind because it’s kind of sweet, and they certainly _are_ lovely), and she very nearly knocks him over with her enthusiastic greeting.

_“Papa! Papa, I got in, I won!”_

With the patience of a saint (or a minor Wellish noble), Lord Antonio carefully extricates himself from the octopus-esque tangle of limbs and hair that is his daughter and braces his hands on her shoulders, meeting her excited eyes with a proud smile. _“You did, did you? My little girl’s going to be a delegate?”_

Iriel nods, holding up the 'seal’ for him to look at. He examines it carefully, parsing out some of the hidden meanings that Iriel’s mother taught him, and doesn’t try to hide the sentimental tears that well in his eyes and seep through the laugh-lines and wrinkles that litter his face from too many years of worrying about his girls. This time, it’s he who wraps his arms around his daughter, both of them finally realizing that she’s grown up now.

And if there should have been another body there, muscular arms squeezing tight and wild red hair tangling around them like a stormcloud — well, neither of them mention it.

* * *

**Yemima** is quite tempted to throw something at the messenger who delivers the news — an automaton beetle, perhaps, sure to annoy for a good hour or two. It would be small recompense for the annoyance she’s about to face — honestly, what is Jiya _thinking_? What is the government thinking, for that matter, deciding to send her in Jiya’s place? Yemima’s an inventor, a craftswoman, not some— some pretty doll lady to dress up and dance around with social niceties. She’s never been good at all that political whatnot — skies above, she works with _machines_ , not people!

Instead, she thanks him courteously through her teeth and shuts the door a little too sharply in his face, whirling down the entry hall and a flight of stairs to her workshop, where she can collapse into a chair and slam her forehead against the surface of her desk.

It hurts a lot more than she expects, but then again it always does. _“Ow… Damn it, one would think that after repeated offenses, the natural instincts would begin to inhibit…”_

Her grumbling trails off into indistinct muttering as she reads and re-reads the missive, scanning the lines for any sign she might get out of this and scowling upon finding none. Stormy skies, she had a _business_! They couldn’t expect her to just up and walk away from that for some politics that were frankly none of her concern, could they?

A sigh. _Yes, yes they could._

Because that’s just how nobility works, apparently. You’re supposed to be pretty and poised and nice to look at, you’re meant to be a wind-up doll that speaks pretty words when asked and remains quiet otherwise. They dress you up and play with you, make you march and dance with their will, and then put you on a shelf when they’ve used you up.

Well, Yemima’s not going to allow them to wind _her_ up and walk her as they wish. She’s the creator, not the toy, and she refuses then and there to play a single one of their silly games.

* * *

**Màiri** shrugs off the well-meaning fuss of her staff and stumps her way out to the grove where her father’s grave lies. By the time she arrives, a loyal stableboy at her side and chattering cheerily as he carries their lunch, she’s leaning on her cane with both hands and almost can’t feel the leather straps around her legs from the pain. But there’s the headstone, starting to become overgrown with moss just the way her father would have liked it, and even after five years she feels a sharp pang at the memory of him.

The boy, Liam (the son of one of her childhood friends, an older boy who’d saved her from multiple accidents while they were playing knights and dragons in the woods), spreads a blanket on the ground before the grave and plops down in front of it with her, pressing his hands together and praying rapidly for _'the kind Lady’s honored father_ '. He’s always called her that when he thinks she won’t hear — _the kind Lady_ — and Màiri’s inclined to blame his parents for the habit. She dearly hopes it’s not some sort of instruction they’re giving him, _be nice to the Countess, she’s got lots of money and she’s weak enough to use._

That’s probably not the case, but she can never be sure. There have been too many who have praised her to her face and tried to pull her strings, becoming angry when they realize her strings are made of steel and she will not move for them.

_“Miss Lady Màiri, ma'am, are you going to come home after this?”_

The question comes as Liam hands her a sandwich from the basket, and she’s almost distracted by Mrs. Columbine’s fantastic cooking (how that woman can make _sandwiches_ mouthwatering is anybody’s guess, but she’s a sweetheart and doting and Màiri’s not going to question her secrets) before she realizes that she probably ought to answer. _“After the Summit, dear?”_

_“Mmhmm.”_ He bites into a sandwich of his own, chewing quickly before swallowing (another gift of Mrs. Columbine’s — she’s instilled basic table manners into all the staff, bless her heart) and looking up at her with round, innocent eyes. _“Just 'cause some of the other boys’ve been saying that you’re leaving, ma'am, but you wouldn’t ever leave Holt forever, right?”_

And that makes Màiri smile. Because the crown can send her off and parade her around, try to sell her away to some other country, but she will always come back to her people even if she has to crawl.

_“Of course, dear heart. Not even God could make me leave Holt.”_

* * *

**Arielle** tells Revin first, of course. The signs leave her hands so fast that he has to laugh and hold her fingers and ask her to slow down, please, I’m not that good at this yet and you know it. When she tells him (her signing deliberately slowed, sometimes fingerspelling words neither of them know yet) about the deal from the crown, he makes a face and muses on the possibility of him going in her place. In drag.

She tells him with a deadpan expression that he’d make an ugly-ass countess, and his falsetto shriek of mock-offense sends them both to tears with laughter.

Next they tell Nora and Miriam and Lady Fiona, who all offer her their congratulations and advice and warnings. Revin’s sisters get a mischievous gleam in their eyes and run off after begging some high-quality parchment and writing supplies from their mother, and some freshly-cured leather from their all-too-amused brother. Arielle’s not sure what they’re planning on doing, but she’s pretty certain she’ll find out before she leaves.

(When it’s time to go and they present her with a beautiful leather belt-pouch, hand-stitched and embossed with her late father’s crest, she thinks she might cry. When Revin opens it up and shows her the beautifully printed and gold-leaf-decorated conversation cards inside, full of useful phrases like _'please’_ and _'thank you’_ and _'I would fuck you over this table here and now’_ , she doesn’t even try to stop the tears of joy that escape as she howls in laughter and thanks God that she has such wonderful friends.)

* * *

**Kite** tells the princesses, even though they’re pretty sure that Constance already knows, and Sina likely doesn’t care. They both put on polite smiles, all prettiness and gladness on the surface, but it’s pretty clear that they’re worried on the inside — or at least, Constance is. Kite can’t claim to know much about the Princess’s marriage, but Constance has been persistent in keeping them near her and they know more than they likely should. Enough to know that not everyone leaves the Summit happy.

They have tea together her chambers, away from most prying eyes — Constance and Sina and Kite and their mother, Lady Amrâlimê. Mother kisses their forehead and fusses in her quiet, poised way, while Constance tries to think of useful tales from her own experience. She can’t come up with much — as a first daughter of Arland, she didn’t have the Summit experience most young Ladies have, and indeed spent most of her time quietly following her duties with a sort of melancholy resignation. Kite feels a little bit like they’re being sent to the gallows, the way things are sounding.

Sina is the one source of light in their conversation, prattling in delight about how her dear older brother was also going to the Summit, and while she’d certainly like it if he brought back a new big sister for her, she wouldn’t mind if he brought back a Kite instead. That comment earns more than a few carefully restrained peals of laughter (and Kite’s properly unrestrained belly laugh as well).

It’s not like they’re really expecting to marry at the Summit. Kite has become rather infamous within the Court for the fact that they’ve never been involved in an affair or dalliance (or if they have, they’re exceptionally skilled at keeping it hidden), and if asked about it they would simply reply that they’ve never been interested. Oh, Kite _likes_ people, but any sort of sexual attraction is quite beyond them, and trying to extricate one from the other… well, there’s no time for nit-picking like that in Corval. If you don’t want one, than you don’t have any, and that’s that.

So they just smile and tell Sina that they’re sure Prince Zarad will find a lovely big sister for her, and they’ll make sure to keep visiting no matter what happens to them.

It’s not like it could be more dangerous than the Court, _right?_

* * *

**Esther** has been resigned to her fate ever since Constance left, and it’s with a long sigh that she leaves her parents’ presence and returns to her chambers, resisting the urge to grab one of the ridiculously lavish pillows from a nearby lounge and scream into them. She’s known it was coming, it’s the fate of all daughters of the house of Arland, but _yet…_

A small, childish part of her had hoped that she might be able to find what she desired. Men had never really interested her, not in a meaningful way, and even if it was just that the men of Arland were dull and stuck-up and utterly infuriating… she would have liked to live in a different world, one where her sister wasn’t in another country and one where she could find a lovely woman and marry her and live happily like that.

Kian is waiting in her sitting room, and once they’re alone (or as alone as one can be, here in their home) he jumps to his feet and throws his arms around her waist, thin face pressed into the fabric of her skirts and shoulders shaking. He’s only eleven, too young to remember Constance as more than a face and a voice, but Esther’s been almost a third parent to him (the Queen, bless her heart, means well but is far too consumed by the trials of _leadership_ to spend much time being a  _mother_ ).

They hold onto each other for a few minutes, her hands running through his dark hair (black like hers, rather than the lighter brown that their mother and eldest sister possess) and his fisted in the fabric by her waist.

Eventually, he pulls away and looks up at her as they make themselves as comfortable as possible on the low sofa by the window, eyes wide and blue-green and teary. _“Esther, you’re not leaving forever, right? You’ll still be able to visit me, won’t you?”_

_“Oh, Kian.”_ She wishes and wishes she could lie, but she can’t. The truth has to hurt sometimes. _“I may not be able to. It will depend on who I marry — he may be nice, and let me come back to see you, but he may be like big sister Constance’s husband and not let me go.”_

Kian blinks, face scrunched up in displeasure. _“Well, when I’m king, I’ll make a decree that my sisters must be allowed to visit me. They’ll have to let you come back then!”_

A sigh escapes her lips and she pulls him close to her side, murmuring into his hair as though he’s still just a babe. Her dearest little brother. He’s too young for the mantle they want him to take up, and she wishes she could be here for him when he does, but her chances are slim. Still, for now, she will try to hold onto hope for a future where they can still smile, the children of the house of Arland.

_“I will await the day, my dear little brother.”_

* * *

**Yuè-Lian Li** doesn’t know what to think when the official letter comes, handed to her at the door by a messenger with the livery of the Castle. She should be happy, right? This is… this is what she wanted, isn’t it? A ticket to further power, further agency, a ship out of this empty life and country full of backstabbing and falseness. A path to the freedom she’s always craved, something to take her away from everything that snaps at her heels like starving hounds. She should be _happy_ , shouldn’t she?

Instead, she falls into the soft-cushioned chair of her writing desk and weeps into her hands.

Somehow, it just doesn’t feel as real as it should have. This was supposed to be an accomplishment, something she won with her own skills and strengths, not some prize awarded to Revaire’s favorite freak for being an affront to humanity. It was supposed to be success, not an empty feeling gnawing in her chest and the growing fear that this was just the Royal Family wanting to parade her around and sell her off, this exotic child unlike anything the world has ever seen.

It’s not her _fault_ she was born this way. It’s not, _it’s not_ , it's— she never _asked_ to be like this.

Oh, who is she even kidding? Nobody will want to marry her — a widow at nineteen, a freak from Revaire with hair white as snow and eyes red as death. There’s nothing she has to give a man; not money or political power, not even her maidenhood. Her estate is too small to be of much worth to the wealthier, more important nobles who will be at the Summit. After all, who will want to wed her when they can have the princess instead, unless they’re looking for an exotic bride. A doll to dress and parade around, like a fancy horse or a well-bred dog.

If Yuè had energy, she would be angry. Instead, she just feels hollow.

* * *

After the judges finally run up to the table and tell her _it’s over, she won, here’s her seal they’ll see her when the boats leave_ , **Irina** goes home and vomits in the back alley behind her father’s house. The beer is a foul taste on her tongue as she gags, jabbing fingers into the back of her throat over and over until nothing comes up but stomach acid. She dry-heaves once more and wipes her mouth on a scrap of spare bandage which is promptly tossed into the hearth fire as she enters the building. It’s not like she’s stupid or anything — better to get rid of it all now than let it sit and give her a worse morning. It was downed quickly, so she’s relatively hopeful that not all of it made it to her bloodstream.

_Well. That’s that, then._

Her father doesn’t leave his room as she passes it on heavy feet, too tired and shaky to bother muffling her footsteps as she makes her way to her bedroom and shuts herself in. The stiff leather cuffs around her wrists feel uncomfortable and sticky, and her forehead feels clammy when she brushes a thin hand across it to wipe away the cold sweat that’s beaded there.

Nothing to do but prepare, she supposes. She’ll need clothes, of course — how quickly can a seamstress work on commission? She’s sure she’s in dire need of formal gowns (since she hasn’t worn anything but trousers ever since _nononono don’t don’t don'tthinkaboutit don’t think about it_ ), and nicer clothes might just be in order anyways. Things with long sleeves to cover the leather cuffs that her father won’t let her take off and the bandages underneath that only the doctor is allowed to clean and change. And shoes too — boots are all well and good for sailing, and sandals for home, but they’ll probably want her to wear shoes that are pretty and dainty with thin heels and closed toes, and like hell she has any of those right now.

Maybe she’ll get new dancing slippers too — but no, no point wasting extra money on something she’ll never use. The Summit’s a perfect place to die, after all — no meddling father to find her bleeding out, no doctor to run to and fix things that should never have been fixed. But wounds take too long, so there’s no point trying to sneak in a weapon. She’ll have to stash away some more… covert alternatives in her luggage.

It’s almost ironic, the amount of time she’s spent building up immunities to poisons, only to go buy them once again for their intended purpose. Hemlock, nightshade, daphne, mistletoe… she’ll have to stock up, since all the stores she’s secreted away have been neglected for over a year and are surely either rotted or completely impotent now. At least she knows exactly how much she needs to get the job done properly.

It’s a good thing the fate of Hise doesn’t rest on the shoulders of Blackthorn’s Mad Daughter, because this time, she absolutely _won’t_ wake up.

_**Irina almost can’t wait.** _


	2. Day 2 - Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Life can be a bitter sting, indeed, but one must continue living.**

"Do you ever wonder if things were different in another life?"

Lisle pauses with his teacup just barely touching his lips and then slowly lowers his arm to place it back on the table, looking thoughtfully at the girl — woman — sitting across from him. It's been three years since the Summit where they met, and yet she only continues to surprise him. Quick and smart, this pirate with eyes like dancing firelight and all the fleeting warmth of the same had somehow wormed her way into his life with bad jokes and witty comebacks and a sort of natural charisma that made even her scars shine. He would have been honored, truly, to have her as a wife — but somehow, he thinks he's even happier to have her as a friend.

Which is why he doesn't deflect, doesn't put on the polite smile and reassure her that this life is perfectly fine, of course. She deserves an honest answer, because she's proven time and again that in spite of her profession, he can trust her. With his thoughts, with his heart, and with his life.

He allows himself a moment to think, glancing pensively out the window to watch his sister and that stubborn horse of hers cantering through the field. "I cannot say I have, Lady Irina. What differences would you imagine, in some other life?"

"Oh, I've told you already, just call me Irina." She waves a hand — the scarred one — airily, tone breezy but eyes heavy. "And differences... I guess I just wonder, sometimes, if there's another life where we could love who we please. without lines drawn in the sand to decree what's right and what's wrong. If there are versions of you and I, somewhere, that got to have their happy endings." Her voice tries to keep the words light, noncommittal, as though she's not baring a broken shard of her heart to him. Lisle can see it, though — the raw edge as she speaks, the way her fingers tighten on the stem of her teacup and the way the words fall too heavy to really be anything but personal and painful.

It takes him a few moments to respond, because he's never really allowed himself to consider a different life. This — his title, his duties, his family and his country — they're all he's ever known. "I don't suppose we'll ever know, truly, what could have been. I am at peace with my decisions, and I don't regret making them—" He doesn't, he truly doesn't, "—but if there really were a version of me somewhere who was able to love as he wished, I—" It's just a quick tightening of his throat, but the emotion still surprises him. It's funny, how he can allow himself to be this honest with another person. "Knowing that would make me very happy."

Irina's laughter sounds choked, and she rubs her eyes half-heartedly while trying to smile. "That's so utterly you, Lisle. I— I wish I could say the same, but I'm— if there's a version of me out there who got to have what I had to leave behind, I think— I think I'd hate her, probably." Her hands are shaking slightly, and she lets go of the teacup before it can start to spill. "I don't want to, but she... I mean, I'd be glad that she's happy, but—"

She doesn't speak, but he thinks he knows what she would say anyways. In the years he's known her, Lisle's realized many things about Irina, and can probably count himself among those who know her best. It's a small group, and he can honestly claim to be among the top ranks.

He knows that she sometimes falls into periods of darkness, and needs her friends to pull her out.

He knows that she doesn't think she can ask for things, be they help or company or forgiveness.

He knows she's strong, stronger than she thinks and stronger than most who see her will ever know.

And he knows she fell in love, there at the Summit, and had to leave that love behind.

_I'd be glad that she's happy, but then why couldn't I have been happy too?_

Lisle doesn't have an answer for her — for either of them, not one that would sooth the cracks and sharp edges where they each have an small empty hole in their hearts. Two holes, his of absence and hers of loss, but he can see them in his mind and they're not really all that different. So he leans forward, places one hand over hers and rests their foreheads together ever so briefly. It's unbefitting of a Prince and certainly of a King, but the thing about Irina is that when he's with her, he doesn't have to be that. He's just Lisle, and she's not a pirate or a Lady or the 'next Katyia', she's just Irina.

Just his friend. Just his second sister in all but blood. They may both be alone in their hearts, but they're alone together, and he'll cherish that.

He hopes that one day, she will learn to cherish it as well.


	3. Day 3 - Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In her dreams, Màiri becomes the wind.**

In her dreams, Màiri can run. Her father is alive and nothing hurts and she can run until she becomes the wind.

Her legs don't give out underneath her, the braces that she's worn ever since she would walk vanishing like smoke and water into the misty air over the fields and fens as she bounds across bare earth with all the weight of a cloud. The grass rustles beneath her bare feet, the wind catching her hair and blowing it out behind her like a banner of pride that declares _I'm here, I'm strong and I'm free and I'm here here here_.

In her dreams, Màiri outruns the hounds. She outruns their horses, even when her father laughs and spurs his stallion into the fastest gallop he can muster, and she outruns the wild deer that they hunt through the forest. Some nights, she becomes the deer or the horses, bounding across the land on four legs instead of two and watching in wonder at the dirt and dust and water her hooves kick into the air. Some nights, she is the wind itself, following her father as he rides and making circles around him until the air sings with her colors and he smiles and pulls her out of the breeze and into his arms.

There's no death, there.

At the Summit, she dreams of Holt. Of Mrs. Columbine's cooking and Liam's excited prattle, of the hounds and horses and the barn cats that have all but infested her attic (she doesn't mind, she never minds, especially when little Elaine coos over each litter of kittens and sneaks them warm milk in the wee hours of the morning). She and the cats and the horses and hounds and all her staff run through the fens and laugh, and dance to the song of the wind as it paints the world in all the colors of the sunset.

When she tells Clarmont, he smiles warmly and tells her that they sound like wonderful dreams to have, confessing that he also dreams of his estate and staff and his dog, Moncha. He muses that perhaps their dreams would be good friends, and asks jokingly if he's ever appeared in her dreams before, one cheeky wink implying that she can interpret the question however she wants.

She's not about to tell him that she's had _those_ sorts of dreams before, especially the few that involved him, but she does tell him that sometimes when she runs across the fields she can see red hair ahead of her, and can hear his laughter. Sometimes, an unfamiliar dog barks, and her hounds bark back in a chorus of joy. Every now and then, instead of her father pulling her from the wind and holding her in his arms, it's someone stronger and taller with dark blue eyes and a warm smile. Clarmont's cheeks burn pink and he responds that he's honored, one hand gently wrapping around hers. 

She never mentions the most important part, though. It's not something he needs to worry about, not with his own concerns and occupations to deal with, and their engagement on top of everything now. No, she keeps the most precious part of her dreams to herself, locked away in that small place in her heart that no-one can ever see.

In her dreams, Màiri can run.

And she wakes up and realizes every morning that dreams are only that: _dreams._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from tumblr.


	4. Day 4 - Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Could she tell him? Could she tell him about the extra 'a', about what she hid under her clothes?**

"I have a man's body."

True to form, Hamin simply blinks up at her in slightly restrained amusement, fingers playing casually with the tacky charm she bought him as a good-luck gift. It takes him a few moments to respond, and finally he says, "Well, I certainly hope this one wasn't murdered as well. The last one was a bit too much for even me, you know." Amrita snorts, entirely undignified, and he grins in mischievous victory. "There, now you don't look quite so constipated! So, Glitter, tell me about this body."

"I—" _Could she tell him?_ This secret she's kept for years, all the lies she's told. Well, she's at the cliff, and she can either turn tail and run or she can take a leap of faith. Amrita's done running. "It's under my clothes. The man's body— it's mine. Me, I mean. My body, it's a man's, under all this." She waves a hand at herself, and doesn't miss his cheeky grin as he takes the opportunity to _blatantly_ eye her up and down with that particular sort of gleam in his gaze (this is becoming a bit of a habit, it seems). "Hamin, _really_! I'm trying to be serious here!"

"Ah, why must we always be serious, Glitter?" He presses a hand to his chest dramatically, "You _wound_ me, my love!"

She groans. "Hamin, please, this is _important_! I just told you that I— that, I mean— that my—" 

"That you've got a man's body, yes, I heard." The brightness in his green eyes is gentle despite his cheshire grin. "I don't see what's so troubling about it, frankly. I've got one too, you know."

Pause. Amrita gapes at him, completely dumbfounded because she'd expected a whole range of responses to her confession, but this? This is completely beyond what she'd imagined. How someone could be so _completely_ blasé about this, about the fact that she— that she's— "You're not— that's not the same, and _you know it!_ Hamin, I'm a woman with a man's body, don't you think that's— that's— I don't know, wrong? _Disgusting?_ "

"Should I?" He raises a single eyebrow, grin vanishing. "Because I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, if that's the case. You're _you_ , Amrita. Your body is _your_ body, and it's beautiful no matter what shape it is." A break, and then his lips tug into a predatory smirk. Unlike most of his smiles, this one isn't friendly. "Why, has someone been telling you otherwise?"

She shakes her head, still trying to wrap her head around his words. "No, no, I just— are you _sure?_ I can't— sex with me won't be the _same_ as with another woman, and I can't give you children, so it's—"

" _—perfectly fine_ , of course!" Hamin's laughter is bright, and he wraps a strong arm around her shoulders to pull her tight against his side, close enough that she can feel the vibrations of his voice. "If we want kids, we can adopt them! It's not like I'm obligated to give Hise an heir or anything, you know. And as for sex," The vibration of his words becomes a low rumble, "I don't see how that's a problem. I can please _any_ type of body, you know."

Snorting, Amrita rests her head against his chest, ear pressed against the place where his heart beats. "I'm sure you do. Prince Hamin, here to make the men swoon better than the ladies can."

"Ah, Glitter, your words are daggers to my pride!" But he's laughing again, and if the arm around her shoulders slips to rest gently on her waist, neither of them mention it. "Should I prove it to you, then?"

She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the side (awkwardly, considering their angle). "Hamin, _really_. We're still supposed to be proper and political for a week, you can't just _proposition_ me like that!"

"You were the one who started the conversation, love."

Ah, yes, the _conversation_. She worries at her bottom lip with her teeth, biting into the flesh there nervously. "So, you... you really don't mind, then? Being with someone like this— like _me?_ " He's assuaged the deepest of her fear, but it still coils in the pit of her stomach like lust's foul cousin, waiting to rise. "People, they'll— if they know, they'll _talk_. Cruel things, and just—"

He rests the side of his cheek against the top of her head, turning his ever so slightly to press his nose into her bangs affectionately. "And what? People already talk about me, it's hardly something I'm unfamiliar with." She glances up to look at him, and his smile is warm and blindingly bright. "It doesn't matter what _they_ think or say, Amrita. And if they bother us too much, we can just return to the sea!"

She raises a single eyebrow in his direction, and is rewarded with a mischievous wink. "After all, the sea doesn't care what's under your skirt or trousers as long as you can follow the stars and ride the wind."

Amrita hasn't heard it put that way before, but she supposes that's just how it will be. It really isn't a bad way to think about it, in the end — after all, she's just as much of a pirate as he is, and being enough for _the sea_ is good enough for her too.


	5. Day 5 - Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sometimes, Rudo forgets that human beings are growing things too.**

"Children?"

She blinks slowly at him, watching the vivid blush creep up from his neck to his cheeks and the reddening tips of his ears, and wonders what she should read into the statement. Was it his way of reaffirming his desire to wed her? Was it a passive demand for heirs, whether for his title only or for hers as well? Or was it simply a bit of a subconscious slip, a polite way of saying that yes, he'd like to have sex with her many times in the near future (near as in after the Summit, of course, since they weren't allowed such things until after marriage in his country).

_"I think... well, it would be nice to have children, someday, don't you think?"_  

Rudo doesn't really understand. Then again, people have never really made much sense to her, not after her father passed away. She's much better at working with _growing_ things, creeping vines and blooming rosebushes and the heavy trailing branches of weeping willows. They sing to her, and she knows what they need and how to help them blossom. Plants make _sense_.

People do not.

Realizing she's somehow turned away, she tugs her gaze back to look at her fiancé and wonder idly what's behind his expression. His eyes, as they stare down at her, are somewhat puzzled, but still just as blue and warm as the summer sky. "Rudo? Are you alright?"

"Hm?" She must have been making a strange face, then. This is why people confuse her. "No, I'm fine. You just surprised me. Why do you think that?"

Emmett tilts his head, and the resemblance to a rather large golden retriever hits her — _as it always does_ — smack in the face. A small part of her traitorously whispers that if it had been that third possible reason, at the moment she certainly wouldn't mind at all. His voice is just as excited as usual, but now it's tempered with something that sounds like kindness. "Well, it's like planting seeds for a tree. A fruit tree, maybe."

"Huh?" He's comparing _children_ to _plants?_ Rudo thinks this just got about five times more confusing than it already was, and if it wasn't Emmett she would have stood and left (but she stays, because it's _Emmett_ and _there's not a lot she's unwilling to do for him_ ).

He steeples his fingers together thoughtfully, freckled face and upturned nose facing towards the sky that matches his eyes. "You get to raise them and nurture them, and watch them grow up, and then when you're old you can look up at them and be proud of the beautiful people they've become and the fact that you helped them get there." The flush returns to his cheeks, and he rubs the back of his neck bashfully. "But that's just sort of what I think. I don't mean I expect you to— well, _you know_ , or anything—"

Rudo blinks again, suddenly unaware of her slack jaw and slumped shoulders and acutely focused on the hummingbird thrum of her heartbeat. "I— _no_ , no, I— that's _beautiful_ , Emmett. It does sound wonderful."

_How could she have forgotten?_ Humans are growing things too, after all, and hasn't she always thought it might be nice to grow her own one day?


	6. Day 6 - Hope or Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **To be Revairan is to remain graceful even as the earth crumbles beneath your feet.**

"Xián! Come in, please, you look terrible!"

The young man — really barely a man at all, still gangly and awkward with large feet and freckles under a mop of curly brown hair — ducks through the door before Yuè can open it any further and pulls it shut behind him with a click, panting. A dark stain slowly seeps through the fabric at his shoulder, and a reddish smear is visible on the sides of the hand he has clamped over it. He immediately hurries away from the entryway, tugging the curtains over the door and front windows shut with his good hand before grabbing Yuè's wrist and pulling her further into the house, calling, "Lord Clarmont! Where are you?"

Yuè stumbles behind her younger brother, caught off guard. "Xián, he's upstairs in his study, what's—" and gets no further, because Xián changes direction and hurries them up the stairs, where her husband has already stepped out of his study to meet them with a concerned expression.

"Xián Chén? What's going on?"

The boy pants, dropping his sister's wrist and leaning heavily against the wall. "They came for us. Last night, or yesterday? I'm not sure. All dressed in black, came in through the windows after we'd gone to sleep — I only saw because Hào Yíng'd had a nightmare and I was getting her a sweet from the kitchens." He winces, fingers digging into his shoulder around the bloodstain. "I got back to her in time, but they— Mother and Father, Bì Ān and Guì Fú and Jī Huā — I'm so sorry, Yuè, I couldn't get to them in time."

She freezes, and Clarmont wraps one warm arm around her shoulders as the words run circles around her head. All but one of her precious sisters — dead? Gone, forever? Jī had been in love with a boy from a nearby family, they'd been exchanging letters. Bì had only been eleven years old, she hadn't even started wearing hoops yet. Guì was saving up to travel to Jiyel to study music there, Avalie had even offered to help her set up an apprenticeship... and they're all gone now?

Her voice cracks when she tries to speak. "And what of my other brothers, Xián? What happened to Mīn Lán and Xiāo Sēn?"

"Mīn was with Hào, so I took both of them and ran. Xiāo was camping out overnight with one of his friends — training, they said, but I think they just didn't want to admit they're sleeping together." Against her will, she giggles, the sound weak and strained. "I picked them up on the way out — they're hiding on your grounds right now, Lord Clarmont. Is it— can I—"

Yuè doesn't see it, but she knows from the movement of his shoulders that Clarmont nods firmly, and she can tell from his voice how worried he is. "Yes, of course they can come in. It would be terrible of me to leave family out in the cold like this. Where did you leave them?"

"The stand of maple trees, sir. I left Xiāo and Orion in charge, since they're the oldest."

Pulling away from them, Clarmont hurries down the stairs, and after a few moments Yuè hears the door shut noisily and sighs. Her mind is still fuzzy with shock, but there's much to be taken care of now. Clarmont with find her siblings, she can trust him with that, so now she must care for the eldest of her younger brothers. "Come on, Xián. Let me clean your shoulder."

Her brother winces and nods, following her slowly down the hallway and into the washroom attached to the bedroom that she and Clarmont share. In a deceptively small cupboard hidden under the sink, she finds a salve and bandages, and wets her handkerchief in the washbasin before gesturing for her brother to take off his shirt so she can clean the injury underneath. The fabric sticks a bit where the blood's already started to dry, but she dabs at it gently with the kerchief and it slowly comes off, revealing a thin gash across the outer curve of his shoulder. "Oh, Xián, what happened?"

"One of them got me while we were running." Xián shrugs and winces as she slowly begins washing off the wound, wiping away crusted blood and cleaning out the edges. "It was going to hit Hào, and I thought— well, better me than her."

A mournful sigh escapes her as she examines the cut, checking for signs of infection and feeling very much like she had at eleven again. Oh, how she'd wished her little brothers and sisters could have had the childhood she didn't, wished they would never have to make the choice of sacrificing for another's livelihood. "Well, it doesn't look infected. You're not allowed to use your shoulder for a few days, though."

"What?" A panicked look creeps into his eyes. "But then how am I going to carry Hào and Mīn?"

She pauses. "Carry them where? Aren't you going to stay here?" Where I can take care of you, but she doesn't say that. It would seem overbearing, since they weren't actually all that close when she still lived at home. None of them were. Yuè loved her siblings dearly, but they hadn't particularly returned the feeling for most of her childhood.

Xián blinks owlishly, staring at her in surprise and only turning away to hiss in pain as she starts dabbing some of the medicinal salve onto the wound and smoothing it over the raw edges. "I— I didn't think— We mostly just hoped you'd let us stay the night."

"Just the night? Xián, you can't be serious." Placing a gauze pad over the cut and wrapping linen bandages around it to keep it firmly in place, Yuè sighs. "You're barely of age, and they'd find you in no time if you stayed in the open. They—" She flinches at the words, but presses on, "—they'd probably not assume that you'd find shelter with your estranged freak of a sister, so you'll be safer here than anywhere else."

Downstairs, the front door opens and closes, interrupting her brother as he opens his mouth to respond with an unhappy expression. Yuè stands, folding his dirtied and torn shirt in her arms. "I'll send this to the wash — I'm sure Clar will be more than willing to let you borrow one of his. Is anyone else hurt?"

"Just— um, just me."

A firm nod, and she turns and leaves the room, almost colliding with her husband in the hallway as he reaches the top of the stairs with a gaggle of children following him, the smallest being carried in his arms. Xián follows her, immediately bending down to throw his arms around his youngest brother as Mīn runs forward to meet him, and grunts slightly as the movement jostles his injured shoulder. Xiāo (standing at the edge of the bridge between childhood and adulthood, the proportions of his face all out of sync in their growth, and he's grown far too much since she last saw him) hurries to embrace his elder sister, tugging at the hand that is wrapped around Orion's so they both end up in Yuè's arms as she bends her head and presses her nose into their hair. They smell like trees and smoke, and she suspects her brother has forgotten to tell her the fate of their childhood home on purpose.

Hào, in Clarmont's arms, reaches for her as she straightens up, and Yuè steps forward to take her littlest sister in her arms. Hào's only seven, born just a year before Yuè was married off to the Baron and too young to really remember her, but Yuè has their mother's round cheeks and flat nose and their father's round lips and high forehead and looks just enough like home that she feels safe to Hào. Pressing a clumsy kiss into the girl's curly hair, she looks up to meet her husband's eyes and some sort of silent message must pass between them, because he immediately crosses the space between them to wrap his arms around her and let her rest her head against his shoulder. 

Neither of them say it, but they both know why her home was attacked. Clarmont may be well-respected and well-liked and safely hidden behind his political cover, but Yuè is outspoken and dangerous to the crown. She's only become more public and more controversial since their return from the Summit just over a year ago, and while her marriage keeps her somewhat safe... her estranged family clearly didn't share that same security. She wants to feel something at the loss, some sorrow or regret at the fact that it's her fault her parents are dead, and yet all she can think of is how eager they were to marry their eldest daughter off to a man who clearly only wanted an exotic plaything, how they fawned and fluttered over her luck to have become so wealthy while ignoring how she had been treated as less than human by her first husband. Yuè wants to mourn them, but her heart simply feels empty, and she recalls her mother warning her not to fight back or argue because she was their livelihood now. Her father telling her to let the Baron do as he pleased, she was a wife now and should submit to her husband's wishes, as though she wasn't barely fourteen and terrified.

No, she can't find it in her to feel sorry at this fate.

The loss of her sisters is hard — they hadn't deserved it, had only been children born to the wrong family at the wrong time — but she's grown up in Revaire, and she knows that war doesn't care whether you're a child or a crone, it will kill you either way. And this is war — not outright, not soldiers versus soldiers and not war in any traditional sense — but everyone within her country is fighting now. For peace, or for power. And now because of her, because she refused to bow her head and stay silent any longer, her family has suffered. 

Her siblings — her children, in all but the traditional sense — don't deserve this, don't deserve to have their lives cracked and shattered to pieces like this. She hadn't been able to protect them from this loss they never should have suffered, but she can and will protect them now.

"They're staying."

It's not a question, nor a request, and Clarmont simply nods and presses his lips to her temple gently. "Your family is my family, Yuè. They're staying."

The world falls apart beneath them, and they build an island out of the pieces, for that is what it is to live in Revaire now.


	7. Day 7 - Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Theo, Theo, Theo — his name is new and it's his and it sounds beautiful coming from his husband's lips.**

The sea breeze tosses his bangs across his face, and he laughs into it from where he's holding onto the rigging of the Blackwater with one hand and gazing out at the horizon with the other shielding his eyes from the sun. His chest is bound and his shirt billows around his hips, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he doesn't think he's ever felt freer. He laughs as loud as he wants, and nobody tells him to bring his legs together and look demure, because nobody tells men these things like they do ladies. 

And he's _a man_ here.

"Theo, my glitter and gold, come down from there and join me!" From far below, a familiar, precious voice calls up to him, the sound full of sunshine and sly delight that Theo can't possibly resist. He swings himself down from rope to rope until his boots — strong, heavy boots that they'd never let him wear as a Countess — thump on the deck and muscular arms immediately clamp around his waist to lift him into the air again. "There you are! If I didn't know better, Glitter, I'd say you love the sky more than you love me — say it's not true!"

Turning his head over his shoulder to meet his husband's bright eyes and cheeky smile, Theo hums thoughtfully. "Well, the _sky's_ never threatened to kidnap me, so..."

Hamin laughs out loud and puts him down, leaning back to rest his hands on his hips with a smile that, in Theo's opinion, rivals the sun and the sea itself. "Ah, you wound me! And besides, you were just as implicit as I was, Glitter. Even though you made us go through all those awful formal affairs."

" _Oh?_ " Theo raises a wry brow. "You mean our wedding? Because I'm yet not sure about Hise, but back home we generally don't consider a drinking competition and about eight different rueda circles to be all that formal. And," He leans in, smile turning just a bit sly and suggestive, "You certainly didn't seem to mind later that night." 

Green eyes sparkle, and Theo flashes back to said wedding night fondly. The festivities had been wonderful (how had he _ever_ gone without doing the rueda every other day?), but he'd been so worried about what came after that he almost had a nervous breakdown in their bedroom, and they'd spent the first fifteen minutes in their wedding bed with Hamin gently talking him through the panicky haze he'd fallen into. He'd been worried that Hamin wouldn't want him, knowing that he didn't have the normal parts, and it had taken his husband a good five of those fifteen minutes just to convince him otherwise.

Of course, within no time the convincing became very easy indeed.

Hamin seems to remember this as well, and grins rakishly. "Oh, surely. Fancy a repeat, my glitter and gold? I'm sure Leala could manage the ship for twenty minutes... or a few hours..."

"Fucking is for the _evenings_ , Cap! And for the sake of the seas, none of us need to listen to your foreplay!"

He lazily salutes in the direction of his first mate, who's leaning down from the crow's nest with what must be an absolutely amused expression (Theo can't tell from down here, but he knows Leala by now and she would definitely be laughing at them more than anything). "Aye-aye, ma'am!" Turning back to Theo, his smile becomes a little gentler, and he offers his hand. Their fingers lace together, and he makes his way across the deck with Theo in tow until they stop at the railing along the side, looking down at the water below. "I actually do have a reason for calling you down. Leala just told me we're within a day of Skalt, and we received word from Galanth earlier that they'll be waiting at the port."

"A— really? We're that close?"

He grins, untangling their fingers to instead drape his arm over Theo's shoulders and knock their heads together. "That close. They even said that there's a medicine man in town who can show you how to prepare it properly and all."

" _Wow._ " Tears prick at Theo's eyes, and he turns to look towards their destination, still just a speck in the distance. Two years ago, he couldn't have ever imagined this. He would have been glad, at that time, to just wear _trousers_ without someone looking down their nose at him and whispering nasty things once they thought he couldn't hear. But _now_ — now he's free, he can dress how he wants and bind his breasts, everyone calls him a man and his name fits even though his skin doesn't, and his husband has sailed them across the sea to find an herbal remedy for even that. "I— wow. We're _that close_."

A brief pause, and then— "Hey, I bet I can grow a better beard than you."

"Well," Hamin smiles, leaning sideways to press their lips together briefly, and Theo laughs, "is that a _challenge_ , Theo?"

He grins.

"A promise."

Two years ago, the future had been soon. But today, with his husband's arm around his shoulders and hope on the horizon, the future is _now._

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposting from tumblr!


End file.
